


never did run smooth

by lastseennever



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Spoilers, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28695180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastseennever/pseuds/lastseennever
Summary: He faintly recalls another time when he’d done the same, but the sky had been red instead of black, his fingers slender and manicured instead of polished metal, and he drops his hand, shifts his wrist until his sleeve rolls back down to skim along his palm, and looks below at his chosen burial ground.A moment to admire darkened waves devolves into a desire to become one with them.
Relationships: Hinata Hajime & Komaeda Nagito, Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56





	never did run smooth

Nighttime is colder in real life than it was in the simulation. 

Nagito supposes that this is to be expected, as it had been perpetual summer in the virtual world. There’s nothing on the tropical island now to indicate the season, the humidity generic and the question too trivial to be asked of Naegi and the rest, but though the days are as hot as ever, when the sun sets the wind is crisp with an edge of a frigid breeze drifting in from a place less temperate, and the difference in temperature is as much a physical testament to the reality of this world as it is a reason for Nagito to curl his hands in his pockets in a feeble attempt at warmth. 

But the small amount of comfort he retains from the motion isn’t enough to justify the effort exerted, and he brings both his hands out to rest on the railing of the bridge instead. The contact sends a shock of chill from his fingertips down to his forearms, but Nagito merely leans forward more, bracing his entire hand against the metal to puff condensation into the night. 

He’s somewhere between the Central Island and the First Island and from here he can just make out the green lights of Electric Avenue across some miles. Smoke from the factory spirals high into the sky, gray mixing with black somewhere to his far right.

There’s rattling, too, so faint that if the night wasn’t as quiet as it is, Nagito’s sure he wouldn’t hear it. He’s confused for a second, mind pacing idly on where to place the disruption, but then it registers, familiarity fitting unsteadily into a foreign palm: it’s the sound of the roller coaster from the amusement park on the Fourth Island.

He’s been awake for a week and a half; some differences between the fake island of the simulation and the one in real life were easy to spot. For instance, he’d noticed immediately that the islands were much larger.

They’d probably been shrunken in the simulation to allow for easier travel, but as a result what used to be a freeing expanse of area has now been stretched into discomforting emptiness, a reality where it’s possible for an individual to cross entire islands without so much as seeing anyone else. Walks along the shore take longer, landmarks are farther apart than they were before, and even the bridges have nearly doubled in size, to the point where traversing to another island is more of an undertaking in and of itself rather than a simple means to an end. 

On the other hand, some changes were subtle, nearly unnoticeable if one wasn’t looking, like how the grass holds less of an artificial green shine or how the movie theater smells more like stale mold than buttered popcorn.

The activity of the coaster in the amusement park is one of these details; in the simulation, the rides never operated without passengers. Pre-programmed maintenance runs had no purpose in a fake world. Here, however, Nagito listens as the screech of wheels pierces across the waters, the shriek blaring high for a moment before muffling into silence.

The ocean is still, pitch black like hardened concrete as he gazes languidly into its depths. Jabberwock Island had turned out to be the island’s real name, although its legitimate location remains undisclosed. Naegi had claimed it was for their own safety; his tone had been kind, reassuring, not a hint of deceit, but Togami had scoffed and Kirigiri had pressed her lips into a thin line and Nagito wonders if it’s really them who’s being protected. 

Not that he would ever really doubt Naegi’s words. Not that he _could_ , anyways. There was no refuting the absolute truth that always came out of the other’s mouth anymore than there was denying the radiant hope that shone from within those hazel eyes. The memory of them staring into his own washed out irises, if only for a moment during their introductions, is enough to make his fingers loosen their hold on the railing to slide apart a couple inches, for the corners of his lips to threaten a curve, and for his knee to lift to where his hands had been moments before, hoisting him up onto the cool metal bar. 

The view is just a little different from a foot higher, and Nagito swings his legs out precariously, uncaring when they fall back and knock against the rails with a clatter loud enough to ring in his ears and forceful enough to jostle his entire body. He’s tipping forward again, bracing his weight against his hands, watching those waters beneath him as if upon closer examination they will appear to be moving after all, and from this angle when he tilts only his head to look back up, the inky depths of the ocean don’t end; instead they extend into the infinite limits of the sky, the illusion of all consuming darkness broken only occasionally by the dim flicker of a star.

They wink at him, as if trying to whisper a secret that they won’t allow even the all-knowing night to be privy to, and Nagito thinks of a hand pulling him out of that glass-and-wire coffin, of eyes glancing surreptitiously at him from across the dining hall, of the glint of metal that’s flashing by his side even now when his sleeves should be covering all but his fingertips, and he thinks he hears their message loud and clear. 

He drags his weight along the rail, inching along as his mind follows behind in trailing thoughts. He wonders briefly about an afterlife before dismissing the notion. There was no place in heaven for sinners like him, and the idea of hell is too appealing to be anything more than his own selfish self-indulgence. Certainly not a reality, no; that spot is probably reserved for a blank nothingness instead, the simple absence of life rather than anything more grand.

Not that it matters. His exit will be striking enough to make up for the lack of anything after. Not dramatic in its execution; he had overdone that aspect in his first death, anyways, to the point where the theatrics had almost interfered with his plans.

Granted, there were other factors in play then, but the memory of his self-assured attitude—so blindly trusting in his _luck_ —has the laugh he chokes out bordering on hysteria. He’s not the only one with luck in this world, after all; not even the only one with luck on this island.

No, this time he will be simple about it: clean, quick, permanent.

The glory will be in the real-world aftermath, and the regret at not being able to see the events beyond his impending demise is almost enough to make his resolve falter.

He can imagine parts of it well enough; they would surely cry, some out of obligation more than pity or any semblance of grief, but Nagito’s more curious about how his luck would affect the world after he was gone, if at all.

Would his funeral be interrupted by a flash flood? Would his death be such bad luck for himself that it would give way to good luck for the rest of the island’s inhabitants? Or would the cycle end completely, swept away along his body by the murky waters, living and dying with him? 

Nagito muses that the worst case scenario was if his luck persisted after his death, but remained confined to his own person. He would hate to put his classmates through the trauma of seeing his perfectly preserved body float up from the recesses of the ocean, months after he’s already left their thoughts.

His right hand reaches out to the side to grab at the support beam he’s pulled himself over to, and he slides down the railing onto his toes without any hesitation. His heels are angled up against the bottom edge of the banister, the tips of his shoes just dangling out over open air.

His left arm is free now, and he reaches out and up, gazes at the sky through his outstretched fingertips for one last memory. He faintly recalls another time when he’d done the same, but the sky had been red instead of black, his fingers slender and manicured instead of polished metal, and he drops his hand, shifts his wrist until his sleeve rolls back down to skim along his palm, and looks below at his chosen burial ground.

Nagito remembers the brochures in the library stating that the bridges between the islands were about 400 feet above ground, give or take. Falling into water from this height— _like splattering on pavement_ , his mind supplies.

Instinctual apprehension runs ice down his spine, paralyzes his legs to the point where the strain of keeping his footing on the ledge is almost enough to break through the numbing haze that's settled over his thoughts—but consciously the fear is more welcome than discouraging, and rather than it tightening his hold on the beam he feels his hand unclenching from the weight.

He lets himself fall forward, eyes open but unseeing of anything except the prospect of nothing, repeating to himself that he feels nothing, feels nothing, _is nothing_ , waiting until it’s true.

Except it isn’t, and won’t be, because there’s a yell from behind him, a tug at his wrist, and he’s yanked back, the impact ramming metal bars into his spine and knocking the wind out of him in one sound gasp. He doesn’t need to look behind him to know who’d saved his life, doesn't even need to blink their voice into recognition; there’s only one person who’s ever bothered with him, after all, and he would never mistake the searing warmth around his hand for anyone else’s. 

Nagito struggles to get his breathing under control, to slow the beating of his heart enough that he can hear himself speak. “Hinata-kun,” he manages in between breaths, and even then his tone is too surprised, too honest, and he’s cringing away from Hinata’s touch even as the other pulls him wordlessly over the railing and back to relative safety.

It is only when Nagito slumps into resignation and tucks his elbows behind him and onto metal to support his weight on more than just unsteady legs that he hears Hinata let out a shaky sigh. It’s more panicked than exasperated, and Nagito doesn’t take his eyes off the distant skyline as he wonders when he’d strayed far enough to allow himself to inconvenience someone’s emotions to such an extent. 

“What,” and it’s the first word that Hinata’s said, nothing more than a syllable of disbelief, but Nagito’s flinching all the same. 

Softer, this time. “What were you doing, Nagito?” 

Nagito tilts his head slightly as he considers his options. He can taste the lie on his tongue, sharp and convincing in execution even if not in context. _Just getting a better view, you know._ There’s a jeering condescension too, a _why should I answer the questions of a mere reserve-course student?_

And behind that, familiar, comforting words, the ones he gives the most serious consideration to.

_Only finally ridding the world of my worthless existence._

But it’s the silence that gives him pause more than anything else, a hand closed with purpose that’s ghosted imprints into his wrist, and he darts his eyes to the side for a moment. 

Hinata’s staring right back, and Nagito flicks his gaze away again, but not before every line of his expression has seared itself into his retinas. Even Nagito’s mind can’t distort the genuine emotions displayed so unashamedly: hurt, worry, relief. Their sincerity wipes out every preordained course of action, leaving behind only a rasping conscience to speak for him.  
  
“It’s really nothing you need to concern yourself with, Hinata-kun.” 

This is where anyone else would protest, claim investment in Nagito’s ill-timed self-execution, demanding answers satisfactory enough to make up for the emotional distress that he’d put them through. But Hinata isn’t anyone else, never was and never will be, and so he merely takes a step back, shoes shuffling on the planked surface.

“I got held up cleaning the mess at Jabberwock Park.” Nagito distantly recalls talk of a party, notes that it must have been scheduled for today, and hums acknowledgement. 

There's a moment where Hinata pauses, and Nagito braces himself, drops his head, but when the other speaks again his voice is as steady as it’s ever been. 

“I’m on my way back to the cabins now,” Hinata explains, as if clarifying his own purpose for being out here will lessen the implications of Nagito’s. 

“Walk with me?”

And Nagito nods, because how could he refuse, even though he’s tried to convince himself again and again that he doesn’t care about what Hinata thinks, says, does, he _can’t_ care, but he doesn’t want to refuse either, not when the the wind rushing along the arc of the bridge is so, so cold, much colder now than moments prior, and Hinata is like a beacon of warmth in the dark night around him. 

On another night, in another life, Nagito might have been strong enough to resist the temptation. He might have been selfless enough to be the first to step away, to finish what he’d started; he wonders if Hinata would catch him again then, or if he would let him go as one last act of charity—but he’s never been anything but weak, weak to his own desires and weak to the boy before him, and when he takes a step its towards Hinata instead of away, one foot in front of the other until he’s standing shoulder to shoulder with him. 

He glances one last time at the rapids far below, and they no longer seem still with the promise of nothingness hidden underneath. Instead they're alight with the threat of it, tumultuous waves crashing into one another with such rough abandon that Nagito wonders how he could have ever seen anything else, how he could have forgotten that the universe tends to chaos as much as he tends to self-destruction.

It’s his victory, tonight. 

He falls into step besides Hinata. As they make their way down the bridge, he doesn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended to be part of a muti-chapter fic, but after rereading this chapter for the umpeenth time I felt that it would work better as a standalone. I do have plenty of ideas that I didn't manage to fit in here though, so if anyone would be interested in a continuation please let me know! I wrote this instead of paying attention to online classes, haha, so I'll probably come back to edit it anyways. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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